


House Warming

by Playfulpawing



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7039276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Playfulpawing/pseuds/Playfulpawing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holland becomes the prime suspect when, after a night out drinking that he can't remember, the head contractor who is working on rebuilding the March home shows up dead in his backyard.</p>
<p>He and Jackson set out to find an alibi, what exactly Holland did on the night in question, and who is really responsible for the murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Long fic. No promises on how quickly I will update but it is all plotted out so the end is in sight. I'm not a writer for Lost.
> 
> Also, this is intended to be a gen fic, as the boys are my brotp, but I will totally read fic that ships them. And I can't promise it won't drift into pre-slash territory(hence the m/m tag.). They really need a ship name.

Holland March awoke to the shrill ringing of an alarm clock. He groaned and lifted his head slightly, taking stock of his situation as well as he could from his current position. He ran through the checklist in his mind.  
  
_Location?_ His own bed. He could easily recognize the press of the Egyptian cotton bedding he had splurged on following his last paycheck as he buried his head deeper in the pillow to block out the alarm.  
  
_Body?_ He cautiously lifted each of his limbs allowing them to fall back to the bed with a gentle thud, before concluding he was still in one piece.  
  
_Time?_ From his position, splayed face down across the bed, making visual contact with the offending alarm clock seemed impossible, so he simply estimated. A dull gray light was leaking into the room through the Venetian blinds, not yet the bright yellow of the midday LA sun. In other words, too early to be awake.  
  
A small voice in the back of his mind, which sounded frighteningly like his daughter Holly, offered an observation, ‘Normal people don't have morning checklists that involve figuring out where they are.’. He huffed at the thought, though he acknowledged its truth.  
  
Pushing aside both his own lassitude and the nagging voice, he rolled roughly over, eyes still closed, arm reaching out to silence the persistent alarm.  
  
“Ow! Jesus!” He exclaimed, pulling back his hand and sitting up.  
  
Now fully awake he sucked on his injured fingers and, forcing his eyes to focus, turned his attention back to the clock. It was still screeching its warning tone, as the unexpected pain had prevented him from putting enough pressure on the snooze button. In the dead center of said button were two shiny silver thumbtacks. The tacks were affixed, point side up, to the clock by several pieces of scotch tape and accompanied by a note.  
  
Taking care to avoiding the tacks, Holland turned off the alarm and carefully peeled the note away from the tape. Lifting the light pink paper to his face, he immediately recognized Holly’s stationary.

_Dad,_  
_Sorry, about the tack thing but I had to make sure you got up. Mr. Roberts will be by at 10:00 for the final signing. There's toast and soda crackers in the kitchen and water and alka-seltzer on the nightstand. Please don't mess this up._  
_Love,_  
_Holly, the best daughter in the world_

The signature made Holland smile as he reached for the water and medicine, dropping the two tablets into the glass and dragging himself into the kitchen. He really had lucked out in the kid department. She took better care of him then he did of her and he certainly, at least in his opinion, didn't deserve it.  
  
He planted himself at the kitchen table and slowly began to nibble on his bland breakfast of crackers and toast. He reached across the table and picked up the days newspaper, scanning the headlines disinterestedly. _Pete Rose Hits 3000th, Prop 13 To Come Before LA Lawmakers, Negotiations Continue for Release of Moro._ He tossed the paper aside and instead crossed the room and picked up the phone. He began dialing the now familiar number from memory, still nibbling at his toast in the brief seconds between numbers while the rotary reset.  
  
“Healy.” A gruff voice answered.

“Guess what day it is?”

“Are you actually asking me, or are you just trying to get me to tell you the day of the week?”

Holland faked a laugh, “Funny. I'd be insulted, but nothing is going to ruin this day. It's signing day!”

“Really? Already? I seems like you just finalized the plans.”

“I know. Amazing turn around time, just gotta sign off on the final touches, they're still laying tile in the back. Holly and I moved in two days ago. And where were you by the way? Mention moving and you find out who your real friends are.”

Deeming his stomach now able to handle more than plain toast Holland carried the phone back into the kitchen, lithely hopping over the cord and grabbing an apple.

“Someone has to solve crimes while you're out on a bender.”

“I was not on a bender. I was celebrating,” Holland said around a mouth full of Apple, “And rightfully, might I add.”

“Was there a point to this call?”

“Not really, just basking in the happiness of things going right for once. Nothing is gonna ruin…this…..day.” Holland trailed off lowering the phone as he stared out to the patio cocking his head to the side. “I'm gonna need to call you back.”

Dropping the phone the rest of the way to the floor, Holland slowly slid open the back door and walked onto the patio. It was obvious that work was still being done, stacks of tile and bags of cement mix littered the deck, leaning against the freshly stained railings .And there, in the middle of it all, was a dark red puddle.

“Please be paint, please be paint, please be paint..” Holland chanted under his breath.

Slowly, with his eyes nearly shut and his face screwed up into a grimace, Holland peered over the railing.

“So….not paint then.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

It took the emergency services slightly over 20 minutes to get to the house. Easily enough time for someone to bleed out or burn up, Holland thought bitterly. He should have called Healy first. It only took 15 minutes from Healy’s apartment over the comedy club. Though, he reflected, he wasn't totally sure what Jackson could of done to help.

A young police officer, Holland would have placed him at around 22 at most, broke off from the cluster of personnel in the yard and approached him, “Mr. March, we need to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course, anything I can do to help.”

"When exactly did you find the body?”

"First thing this morning, so, bout 9am." Holland said with a shrug.

“And last night, anything out of the ordinary? Anything that stands out?”

Holland floundered for answer, and the ‘no’ abruptly died on his tongue as he suddenly realized he couldn't conjure any images of the past night. He closed his eyes in an effort to kick start his memory, but was met with nothing.

“Mr. March?” The officer asked, bring him out of his reverie.

Holland shook his head, turning back to the boy, “Sorry, I just…I wasn't really here last night.”

“And where were you exactly?” The officer asked, writing in his notebook.

“I started out with tacos at La Paloma. From there?” He shrugged, “I wandered.”

“Ok.” The officer said, sliding the notebook into his shirt pocket, “I'm gonna need you to place your hands behind your back.”

“Wait…what?”

“It's just a precaution, sir. You’re a person of interest, at least until we establish where you were last night.”

"I still get a phone call, right?” Holland asked, frantically wracking his brain for a way out.

"When we get downtown.”

Admitting defeat, Holland smiled and followed the officer to the squad car out front. There was no question as to who he planned to call.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the amount of time this has taken. I recently got a new job so this might be a bit of a slow uphill climb. I hope you will stick with me though.
> 
> Also apologies for any errors, I don't really have a beta. If anyone wants to volunteer let me know. :)

When Holland was finally free to go he was unsurprised to find Healy already waiting in the jail’s small foyer. He had been guided down several corridors, hands still safely cuffed behind his back, before they entered the reception area. Now he found himself being scrutinized by the older man who looked him over from behind the reading glasses he had been forced to wear in order to read and fill out the release forms.

Healy still somehow managed to look smug, despite the reading glasses which, seemed ridiculous once you noticed the sunglasses also perched atop his head. Holland had often attempted such looks himself, particularly when dealing with difficult clients but his gangly and tall figure was unable to project the right amount of nonchalance and stability. Nevertheless he found himself shifting his gaze downward, away from Jack’s line of sight.

“How much?” He mumbled, rubbing his newly free and slightly chaffed wrists.

“$200.”

The guard at the desk motioned him over and Holland went to collect his personal effects. He slid his sunglasses on, pushing them up over his forehead like Healy’s, and remastered his wedding ring around his neck before finally opening his wallet and turning to Healy.

“What the fuck?” March said turning back to the desk clerk, “Was this empty when you took it? Because I definitely took about a grand out yesterday afternoon.”

“That's exactly as it was when you surrendered it sir.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” he turned to Healy, “We can hit a bank on the way home, I can get you back that $100.”

“$200.” Healy corrected.

“Yeah, $100, my half.”

“Your half?”

“It's a business expense, I thought we agreed to split all expenses 50/50.”

“How is this a business expense?”

“I'm part of the business aren't I?”

Healy simply rolled his eyes in Holland's direction before urging him to follow him out to the car and getting down to business.  
  
“You've got at least a week before we move into court, at least that’s what Perry was saying, so we really need to get a move on as far as establishing what you were actually up to. I'm gonna just go ahead and come out with it:” he stopped, turning to face his partner, and stopping his with a firm hand on his chest, “Did you kill the contractor?”

"God no! What the hell man? What kind of people are you usually working for?”

Healy sighed and turned resuming his walk to the car “The kind that usually would have killed the contractor.”

\--------------------------------------------------

  
"Dad!”

Holland had barely taken two steps up the driveway before he found himself with an arm full of worried teenager. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what had happened to his daughter. No doubt, Holly had at some point come home from school, expecting to celebrate the finalizing of their new home to find a corpse in the backyard and her father in prison.

“Im OK, Im OK…” Holland mumbled into Holly’s hair gripping her for dear life, “They let you back in the house?” He asked finally pulling back.

Holly pulled back and looked her father over. He seemed no worse for wear. “They said the crime scene really only includes the deck and backyard.”

Holly tossed an unreadable look at Jack over he father’s shoulder, “And Mr. Healy is very persuasive.”

Holland turned, fixing his eyes on Jack who shrugged noncommittally. “Let's get inside.” He said turning and ushering his daughter back toward the house with a firm hand on her back.

  
Inside the house, both Marchs immediately crumpled into chairs at the dining table as Healy made a bee line for the kitchen. Returning a moment later, he placed two Yoo-hoos and one Miller High Life on the table. He did a rather admirable job of hiding his surprise as Holland selected a Yoo-hoo leaving Healy with the beer.

"I don't think you could forget murdering a person.” Holland was saying, “So I definitely didn’t do it. I'm at least 99% sure….or like 95%.”

Holly rolled her eyes exasperated. Healy simply sat down and fixed March with a serious look.

“Listen, Holland.” The name sounded odd coming from Healy who, generally spoke in impersonal surnames, “Things are looking pretty bad for you at the moment. You were the only one home when the murder occurred and you can't account for your actions in the hours leading up to the crime. 95% ain't gonna do it.”

“I admit things don't look great on paper, but it's all circumstantial. They don't have any hard evidence or anything.”

“And what do you call the gun?”

“What gun?”

“Your gun.”

“Just cause a guy owns a gun doesn't mean he killed someone. Thing hasn't left the cookie jar since we wrapped our last case.”

“Yeah, except for last night.”

Holland looked genuinely confused at this. Finally, Jackson thought, something he tossed at the wall had stuck. “What?”

“Yeah, the cops picked it up off your deck, missing two rounds. Any guesses on how many times our victim was shot?”

A look of horror was slowly unfurling across Holland's face. He was turning pale at an ever increasing pace and Jackson was at a loss as to what to do. Finally he reached across and grasped Holland firmly by his wrist, bringing him back to reality and sighing as he suddenly found himself under the laser sharp focus of Holland's eyes.

"Look, I'm not saying this is gonna be easy,” he began, “but I've got my best men on the case.”

“Who?”

“Us.”

 


End file.
